Volkanovski and Petr Yan: Greatness Is Not in the Belt, but in How They Face Time

I sat in the press row, a few meters away from the UFC 333 cage. The arena lights beamed straight down onto the octagon, but my eyes stopped at a dark corner: Song Yadong sat cageside, not to watch, but to be seen. In martial arts, a fighter placed cageside by the promoter is rarely a mere spectator. That is a silent message. The Chinese fighter barely spoke that night; he just folded his arms and watched Petr Yan leave the cage with the belt around his waist. I remembered the line I still write in my diary: "There are applauses no one hears, but the fight still needs to be told." That night, between the cheers, I could hear the pulse of a turning point. The context: UFC 333 was not a random number. The event was expected to reset the order in three weight classes. Alexander Volkanovski, 38, returning after a string of doubts about age, faced Evloev, a pressure wrestler never finished early. The second bout was the third meeting between Petr Yan and Merab Dvalishvili — a classic trilogy of striker vs. chain-wrestler, totaling 75 minutes across all three fights. The last bout featured Steve Kavanagh, a technical boxer with inconsistent results, against Temirov, a first-round finisher. None of these were easy tune-ups; all were quality tests. But what made the night different was not the outcomes, but how the victories were built. Volkanovski finished Evloev in under two rounds. A 38-year-old fighter, with a prior knockout loss, still able to dominate a younger wrestler at an age when speed usually erodes first. The crowd stood. But I wrote in my notebook: this was the victory of an architect, not of a reckless brawler. Volkanovski did not win through power; he won by controlling positioning, by calculated footwork in every takedown defense. He read Evloev's intentions before the opponent could execute. The Yan–Dvalishvili fight was a different story. In the first fight, Dvalishvili won through a barrage of takedowns: 49 attempts — a ridiculous number for the division. In the second, Yan reclaimed the belt by keeping the fight standing, right in his wheelhouse. In the third, the two styles alternated like two breathing rhythms: Dvalishvili landed 5 takedowns in the first two rounds; Yan surged from round three to the final horn. When the final bell rang, the belt stayed with Yan, but the score was so close that even ESPN's commentator admitted "the fight was decided by a small measure." I watched the two fighters embrace inside the cage, both exhausted. They gave us a perfect trilogy about the dilemma between striking and wrestling. No one owns a permanent answer. The winner was decided by where the fight happened — on the feet or on the mat — not by a fixed skill gap. As for Kavanagh, the left uppercut at 4:28 of round one was a symbolic shock. A fighter who had lost by submission, who had gone 2-2 in his last four, was the one to knock out a specialist in early finishes. He was not stronger; he was faster and more accurate. "Speed and accuracy," his coach said after the fight, and I wrote that sentence in my notebook, next to my line: "I am not here to score, but to record those who score." But here, I want to stop and go against the wind. A common misunderstanding is that UFC 333 was a night of great victories, proof that age is just a number. I argue the opposite is closer to the truth: this was the night when the greatest fighters quietly sold what is left, in the form of "send-off" fights. Volkanovski talks about moving up to lightweight as unfinished business. Fans want to see him fight Gaethje — a bout between two aging stars, 38 and 37, where commercial value far exceeds competitive merit against the division's true No. 1 contender, Makhachev. Volkanovski himself admits the discomfort of "skipping the line." But the UFC does not operate on fairness; it operates on revenue. ESPN is both the broadcaster and the commentary channel, and their repeated talk of a "send-off" bout is not just sports; it is commercial pre-marketing. Look at Volkanovski's health. At 38, every absorbed strike has cumulative value. He was knocked out by Makhachev in a short-notice rematch. In a heavier division, opponents hit harder; the risk of a second career KO is a serious concern for anyone who truly cares about the fighter. ESPN's own article concedes: "eventually the game will catch up." The praise of "looking as good as ever" is often the story told right before the cliff. I am not saying Volkanovski should retire immediately. I am saying we are witnessing a rare phenomenon — a fighter still at the top at an age where decline is the default — but one dominant two-round result is not enough to erase long-term risk. The Yan–Dvalishvili trilogy also hides a governance gray area. The 75-minute trilogy, with dozens of high-pressure wrestling exchanges, is cumulative wear for both. But the more notable signal is how the UFC arranged the future: Song Yadong seated cageside is a public cue that the bantamweight division is ready to move past the trilogy. Fans want a fourth fight; the organization wants a new face. In MMA, who gets the title shot is not a written rule; it lies in the promoter's hands. And that unwritten rule usually favors box office. If I had to pick one image to remember this night, I would not choose Kavanagh's knockout or Yan's belt. I would choose the moment Volkanovski stood in the cage, looking up at the stands where fans chanted his name. His eyes were not directed at them, but at something further away — a place where he knows the game is slowly closing. I once wrote: "The day I fell, the grass told me where I belong." For Volkanovski, the mat that night told him victories are still possible, but time is on no one's side. So the question is not "who is the greatest," but "how long can that greatness be displayed before it becomes a relic?". When an organization and a media channel align toward send-off fights between aging stars, they are optimizing for today. The rest of us — writers, viewers — must ask whether we are enabling an unnecessary fall. The ball rolls past everyone; only the storyteller stays. And the storyteller — me — will not only record the punches, but also what lies between the punches: Song Yadong's silence, Volkanovski's gaze, and the embrace between Yan and Dvalishvili as they knew the trilogy had closed forever.